Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE MYSTERY OF THE INNOCENT SAINTS, SELECTION, by CHARLES PEGUY



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THE MYSTERY OF THE INNOCENT SAINTS, SELECTION, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: I am, saith the lord, master of the three virtues.
Last Line: That spring has come.
Subject(s): Saints; Salvation


I am, saith the Lord, Master of the Three Virtues.

Faith is a true wife.
Charity is a loving mother.
But hope is a maid in her prime.

I am, saith the Lord, Master of the Three Virtues.

Faith holds in sæcula sæculorum.
Charity gives in sæcula sæculorum.
But my little hope rises afresh with every dawn.

I am, saith the Lord, Sovereign of the Virtues.

Faith extends in sæcula sæculorum.
Charity unbends in sæcula sæculorum.
But my little hope daily bids us good morning.

I am, saith the Lord, Sovereign of the Virtues.

Faith is a soldier, a captain defending a stronghold,
A citadel of the king,
On the roads of Gascony, on the high roads of Lorraine.
Charity is a doctor, a little sister of the poor,
Tending the sick, tending the wounded,
The poor of the king,
On the roads of Gascony, on the high roads of Lorraine.
But my little hope says good morning to the poor and to the orphan.

I am, saith the Lord, Sovereign of the Virtues.

Faith is a church, is a cathedral rooted in French soil.
Charity is an almshouse, a hospital that binds up the miseries of the world.
But without hope, all would be no more than a graveyard.

I am, saith the Lord, Sovereign of the Virtues.

Faith stands guard in sæcula sæculorum.
Charity stands guard in sæcula sæculorum.
But my little hope
lies down every evening
and rises in the dawn—
and sleeps well through the night.

I am, saith the Lord, Sovereign of that Virtue.

My little hope sleeps in her cot
every evening
after having repeated her prayer
and every morning wakes again and rises
and repeats her prayer with an outlook that is new.

I am, saith the Lord, Sovereign of the Three Virtues.

Faith is a great tree, an oak rooted in the heart of France.
And under the branches of that tree Charity, my daughter Charity, shelters
all the sorrows of the world.
And my little hope is no more than the promise of the buds, whispering at last
that spring has come.





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